Gold Marilyn

There she was.  I had seen her before.  The pink-haired girl. I had never met her before, but there she sat across the room.  She intimidated me. Her hair was pink and it was 2002. Her thin appearance and metal piercings told my sheltered thoughts that “She is artsier than me, she knows more than me.  She has pink hair and knows more than me.” Others in the room did not seem to feel that way towards her or her pink hair. Others sat closely, smiled and discussed. Maybe my sheltered thoughts and upbringing had something to do with it, maybe pink hair spoke “wild” to me, maybe pink hair was what “artsy” was to me.  It was 2002, and we were sitting in a blank, tech room. One large screen in front and an Elmo projector readied. We were told to meet there instead of in the studio so, I was, of course, early. Late would have been a self-inflicted wound of stares, whether they stared or not. I chose the table to hide at least half my body, the other students who seemed to know more than me sat around on the floor;  they sat near Pink-Haired Girl. 

Satellite link to the Met included Andy Warhol color copy in front, Gerhard Richter behind that.  Who is Andy Warhol? Gerhard Richter’s unfamiliar name was tossed about the conversations of Drawing 2.  Who was Gerhard Richter? Satellite link on, Met curator spoke, questioned and expected a volley of thoughts.  Pink-Haired Girl spoke, maybe not at first, but when she spoke I knew it was her. The voice was unfamiliar, like the pink hair, her suggestions and thoughts were beyond mine.  Pink-Haired Girl knew more than me. Pink-Haired Girl spoke with her pink pigtails and tattoos and seemed like she knew things. I knew nothing of the images. Our professors seemed disappointed that the room was not a buzz with questions and ideas.  Discussion of Warhol brought into question why Marilyn? Why gold? Why mass production of art; devalued again with photocopies in our hands. Compare Richter’s, Woman with Umbrella. Who is Richter’s woman? Discuss a time in the 1960s. In 2002, Satellite link ended.  I will always remember Warhol and the Gold Marilyn. Exit Pink-Haired Girl. Exit me.

It was 2002 and summer ended my first year of college.  Around the time that Pink-Haired Girl entered my life, my boyfriend and fake fiance exited.  Summer was full of work and no pink hair. Fall Semester had a bag of syllabi. I was no longer new or feeling new.  The studio was familiar, Painting 1 was new. Familiar faces eased tensions, unfamiliar easel showed possibilities for the semester.  Familiar faced professor, familiar studio, new taboret, new syllabus, new easel, new chop-saw and then break. No longer new feelings led me outside to a group of those who knew more than me sitting on a bench.  I didn’t like the benches, concrete formed sides with pressure-treated planks. Maybe college was supposed to have better seating. Girl was sitting on the bench and skinny, dark-haired boyfriend was close. We all talked.

Breaks continued like the semester and talking continued near the bench.  I realized that Girl-On-Bench was Pink-Haired Girl. She spoke, but I discovered I knew more in the Fall of 2002.  Talking near the bench I realized I knew more about myself and about Warhol’s Gold Marilyn. I discovered how to discuss art and wild things without the feeling of being new.  Pink-Haired Girl sounded familiar now and talked about quitting smoking. I said, “I didn’t know you smoked.” I really didn’t know much about formerly Pink-haired Girl, in hindsight question was weird.  In the studio, I would talk to formerly Pink-haired Girl at her taboret on the other side of the studio painting area. She visited my taboret, we would critique each other’s assignments. Pink-Haired Girl became T---.  T has brunette hair in Fall of 2002, brown almost black eyes and is not as skinny as the pink-haired girl version and is a kindred soul. Tattoos are present. T talked about bra shopping with her mother. This seemed like it should have been an uncomfortable topic, but it was natural.  T didn’t wear bras when she had pink hair, she didn’t want to or need to. “Now I need to. My mom took me to _____”, T said. T is intriguing not because she didn’t wear bras before, or that she had tattoos, or that she formerly had pink hair. T shared. T was deep, depth unknown.

Time off between semesters for Christmas did not include conversations with T.  It was 2003 and Spring Semester. I had just moved to an apartment down the road.  Painting 2 schedule brought similar painting seating. T was across the studio with a group that seemed to know more than me.  I declined to drive to NYC to get art supplies...enter the same feelings about being new. T’s hair was dyed. It wasn’t pink, we called it Chocolate Cherry.  After a weekend off, T had moved closer to me in the studio, seating arrangement changed. Enter more conversations about “artsy” things. Enter T’s new facial piercing, lip if I remember correctly.  T talks of new tattoos in the future. T and I were also in Creative Writing. Enter Author as Professor. T knew author-professor; I did not, but I liked to write. This is where T, told the class that her eyes were Brown-almost-Black in an assignment she read.  On the way back and forth from the studio and our class we talked about children and art and how our professors were married artists; how married art professors having children doesn’t seem to mix (art professors had a baby two years later). We stopped in the snack place to buy a paper cup for $.10 to make tea in the studio.  We sat in the hallway outside of the studio and made canvas stretchers and discussed our Creative Writing professor. I was glad I shared a class with T outside the studio. Exit Semester. Enter Summer.

In 2003, we should have been transferring, but some of us decided to stay and finish our degree program.  Beyond sixty credits seemed worthless but “art for art’s sake” was priceless. Include part-time semesters, full-time art and waitressing job at parent’s restaurant.  In 2003, there seems to be no order to the memory timeline, but sometime in 2003 T and I became the best of friends. I met her mother who had salt-and-pepper hair. I went to T’s house and to an old-time theater to see a new-time movie.  I met T’s Mim; tickled because we shared the “Mim’ name for our grandmothers. Time was spent and moved forward. I barely made art, but I did fill a sketchbook, it was 2003, and we collaborated. We laughed. We discovered partial depths of our souls.  Exit all of T’s facial piercings.

Final semester, it was Spring 2004, T and I shared a wall in Directed Study 2. T threw a Directed Study birthday party for me. I barely made art and T’s latex art gave me gross feelings. I barely made art and T made artsy abodes dipped in latex.  I collected media and materials and T researched sterile gauze. I developed ideas and T started filming. Directed Study 2 class posed for photograph invitation cards. The show was coming soon. I still barely made art. To make something artsy we traded pieces. T’s skinny, dark-haired boyfriend and I; then T discarded art that I made permanent in my sketchbook.  Other Directed Study 2 students made Art. I barely made art until I made it on the floor. Enter repurposed items. Enter zippers. Enter installations. Enter gallery. Enter show. Enter Merit awards and money for T, T’s skinny, dark-haired boyfriend and I. Transfer portfolio to the trunk of my car, later weight from portfolio almost broke shocks. Enter tassels and diplomas.  T rescued some whimsical animals from a playground and installed them into her mother’s backyard. Transfer T’s silver hatchback Civic to sister. Exit T to Chicago. Exit Me.

Life speeds passed when paths diverge.  Enter life. Enter my love, converge souls.  T makes art and sometimes makes it home. She made it home for my wedding, for holidays and summers.  Missing her made me feel like my path was “grassy and wanted wear”. T learned how to be an old-time “smith” of things and my soul salivated to make art like she made art.  Then she made me laugh, ceramics were coated with pastel toilet bowl colors. T could blow glass into art. Her ears had large gauge, mother-of-pearl piercings through them. One time T came home early from Oxbow because she was so sick.  Doctor’s hindsight was T’s survival of West Nile Virus from a mosquito bite. My hindsight, thankful T came home at all that year. She was no longer vegetarian. Enter lily tattoo across the chest. Enter baby for me and my love. I went pregnant bowling with T.

Social media allowed me to stay silently in touch until we spoke again.  Enter vintage flair for T and first poster girl tattoo. I saw many tattoo photos and milestones.  T saw the same for me. T traveled home for holidays; sometimes. Enter Baby1. “Motherhood looks good on you,” T’s Mom said once.  T was not in college anymore, but her half home in Chicago was where she settled while her home here, was where she ached. Once we walked around with my Baby in a stroller and talked about life.  T wore a black, pea-coat; she yearned to be home but loved Chicago and a boy that didn’t love her back. I saw despair, I saw sadness, I saw T as much as life allowed, but didn’t talk to her as much I could.  I stayed silently in touch; I saw conversations and photos instead of T in person. Enter Baby 2. When she couldn’t make it home I saw Chicago holidays. One time T and newest best love failed at car rental and had Thanksgiving in Chicago.  Roasted chicken and fixings on display. Sometimes I was not silent and sent a message; kindred always.

In 2012 enter T for a visit with newest best love.  New love is kindred and loves my cat. T met my newest Baby 3 and passes the threshold of my first home.  Forgotten portfolio had collected dust in its final resting place of attic; it remains heavy but only heavy enough to almost break car shocks.  T cries about grandmother, my heart aches to see T sad. My babies love T, T loves my babies. Exit T back to Chicago. T realizes ideas about latex and sterile gauze will bring her to the new career of Nurse...other ideas bring engagement and marriage. I declined bridesmaid honor because my honor of motherhood was too difficult to add up-do.  Invitation with copper and patina theme. T is beautiful in white and tattoos. Enter Baby 4 and celebration of T in white here at her Mom’s house. Congratulations. Goodbyes until soon. 

T gets schooled on medical matters and those of the heart.  T excels at classes and advocates for menstrual awareness. T sews natural menstrual pads and template looks like uterus’.  I excel at motherhood and advocate for breastfeeding. T visits often. T always plans a visit when she calls. I feed T when she is home.  T gets mustard from my fridge for hard-boiled egg, I love that she didn’t ask. T gifts things when she is home. I miss her when she has to leave.  Lack of technology keeps me from seeing T silently. Text sometimes. Enter Baby 5. Enter present from T for Baby 5 and images were social media shared. T came home to take care of her sick grandfather.   I visited T while she was a Nurse at her mom’s house. T holds my newest Baby for Instagram “Angel Baby” she says. Exit grandfather. Exit sad T to Chicago. T returns in sadness to Nurse her “Mim”. I visit T at her mother’s and feed her green things.  T scoops an avocado and then administers morphine. Exit Mim. Since Chicago move, this timeframe was the most visits I saw T.

Exit best love.  Enter new apartment for T alone where she can nurse a garden and be a Nurse.

Newest technology connects me silently again.  Sometimes I texted or messaged. T shares pictures of cats and scrubs. T comments on my baby’s and events, She says, “my friend _____is winning at motherhood.”  Another visit wasn’t long enough, never enough time.

Then T changed.  I could see it. I could feel it.  Enter worry. Enter concern. Enter countless messages.  It was 2018 and something was eating at my gut about T. While I was busy with my babies I would see her busy with pills or hospital visits.  I reached out. She was slow to answer. When she did message she was positive. She had a silent illness it had a long name. I believe the last I saw her was Nov 2018.  We messaged often after this. I saw more cats, pills, and hospital stays. I checked up on her; she was coming back here, back home. Enter Mayo Clinic. Enter second opinion.  Enter messages and comments. When she arrived home, I ached to see her. I never told her I worried, I’m sure she worried enough. I want tea and time. T did not schedule a visit.  T would message me screenshots of the hearts I gave on her photos. T said I internet stalked her. I wanted to make time. T did not schedule. I wanted to be silent next to her and for her to know I am here.  I texted T and said we needed “to date soon”. I was looking forward to it. Enter busy week, enter kid’s schedules. Tae Kwon Do and Irish Step Dancing. Enter internal promise to send T message on Wednesday to schedule a visit.  T comments on my Baby’s photo with message and heart. I respond. T comments back “Well ya learn something new every day.” That was Sunday. Tuesday evening surrounded by my Baby’s and my Love at the dinner table. T’s Mom called.  T is no longer with us. She had been looking forward to our “date”.

The pink-haired girl who knew more than me was never to be seen again,  but I saw T. I knew T. Sometimes she had pink hair; mostly not. She used to smoke and not wear bras.  Her mother still has salt and pepper hair, now it is mostly salt. T used to be vegetarian and almost died because of a mosquito.  She moved from home many years ago to make art, she moved back home to make sense. T made art that resembled life and made life that resembled art.  I didn’t get to see T for one last visit. It is 2019 and I ache. I ache for T and her smile. I want to hear her laugh. It is 2019 and I knew a pink-haired girl that became a best friend. I don’t know much more about Andy Warhol, but I know about a Gold Marilyn.  

Originally written in 2012

Revised on July 26, 2019.